The Alchemist's Lament
by labyrinthine
Summary: Creation. Vaughn considers controlling the universe.


Title: The Alchemist's Lament

Author: labyrinthine

E-mail: elabyrinthine@yahoo.com

Rating/Classification: PG/angst, AU, Vaughn POV.

Summary. Creation. Vaughn considers controlling the universe.

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Authors Notes: I consider this AU, purely from a canon perspective. This is for the Credit Dauphine April 2002 challenge. Thanks to Hil for the challenge and incentive to write, Thorne for the vote of characterization confidence, and the server 5 gang for fun times as always. Extra secret thanks to Abbey, for writing such a killer poem. 

*****

"It is difficult to talk to you, and of you-

already, I have to invent terms."

*****

You watch the patter of spring rain through the glass pane of the diner window with curious interest. The rain will collect in streams, puddles, and seep into the Earth. Over time it will evaporate, condense into clouds, collect into pockets of moist air and eventually, precipitate once more. Transpiration from plants will contribute to water vapor in the atmosphere, and these same plants will uptake fresh water from root systems to compensate for the loss. A hydrological cycle extravaganza occurring right before your eyes.

You can relate to cycles, their uniform predictability, just as you know how difficult it is to break a cycle once you have been cast. 

Early alchemists attempted to break through common-sense constraints and create new cycles, glorious paths that existed in their minds as elusive targets of creation. They were more than just dreamers who imagined changing base metals to gold; they attempted to apply this feeling of transformation to every facet of their lives. This appeals to you, though you are aware their every attempt to alter the underlying basis of a substance was a failure. No matter how hard these proto-chemists tried, they could not change something that was into something that was not.

No matter how hard you try, you cannot change the focus of your convictions. No matter how desperately you want, you cannot change what you have into what you most desire.

You can't change Alice to the woman you want to love, just as you can't change Sydney to the woman you're allowed to have.

You wish you understood the powers of alchemy, but fear your request is too extreme for any conversion.

*****

"I am trying to show you who I am,

and why there are no common elements 

to the sets {loveyou} and {loveme},

why the set called "we" is null. {Empty.}"

*****

The sound of rustling and a door chime break your interlude, and you swivel your head, imperceptibly. You glance long enough to make out Sydney's form swathed in a dark poncho, dripping wet, and return your focus to the window, where you can simultaneously watch her encroaching reflection on the glass and the encroaching storm outside.

You don't know why you are attempting stealth. The diner is deserted, far out of the way of normal traffic routes. The risk of discovery is so minute that you have planed to conduct your meeting over an early lunch, sitting face to face, a nice contrast from the accustomed non-interaction counter mission meetings both of you have perfected.

Face to face meetings in public have always been a welcome occasion, but you begin to have doubts over the success of this situation, given what needs to be addressed. Your clandestine briefings always feel so intense, forbidden, something not allowed. At least they feel this way to you – Sydney is so hard to read sometimes, it's rare you can actually follow her thoughts. You hear wet footsteps squelching against the tile of the diner floor, increasing in sound, and have a frightful, gripping thought: you are such a fool, Michael. Only a fool would have this conversation in an already volatile environment. Fuel to the fire, and everyone has heard what happens when you play with fire.

Sydney slides into the booth with a wet smear, grinning. You turn to face her, the real life reversal of the window reflection. For a sudden, irrational moment you wish for the reflection to replace this real-life person. Sydney, sitting mere feet apart from you, the brush of her sneakers against your dress shoes as she shifts to remove the poncho a reminder of her incredibly closeness, a proximity you so rarely experience. She is reality, all hard lines and edges. The erased reflection was soft, muted, malleable. Approachable. You wish you could replace the two, and give mission details and personal news to a figment of an image, but understand that there are limits to every wish.

You exchange pleasantries, engage in small talk, and listen to the tale of Sydney's water-logged trip to the diner. The waitress, a middle-aged woman too large for the mandatory black and white uniform she is obligated to wear, appears with false interest to take your orders. You request coffee, black, and nothing else, fearing ingesting too much in your churning stomach would be a very bad move. Sydney has no such reservations, you observe, taking advantage of the 24-hour breakfast special while chatting in your direction about the lack of breakfast supplies in her house these days. 

For a moment you tune out her voice. This is the first time you have actually wanted her to keep quiet, and you resent the thought just as you acknowledge its necessity. So often she is reluctant to talk to you outside of a purely professional capacity; you suppose that she is taking advantage of this singular opportunity to spend time with you without fear of being caught. Any other day you would find it endearing, almost attractive. But you are a more sensible man now, you tell yourself, resigned. You have accepted what can and cannot be.

You pass a manila folder across the table just as the waitress arrives with your orders. Droplets of coffee splash over the rim of the mug to land, roarasch-style, on the folder, obliterating the creamy pale expanse of the document. It is so difficult to remove coffee stains from any surface. You never had the patience for scrubbing and bleaching; it has always been far easier to carry on with the stained item or go out and buy a new replacement than deal with erasing evidence of the mess. And Alice was never any…IS any help with…you tousle your head, slightly, to shake off both the tense error and the train of thought. Instead you pick up the offending coffee cup and take a sip, grimacing at the bitter over-warmed flavor. The coffee here is always awful, you can't remember why you ordered it in the first place.

The counter mission explanation you recite by rote is easy and uncomplicated, taking perhaps three minutes in its entirety to detail. Sydney nods occasionally, her breakfast captivating far more of her attention. Your attention wavers as well, to the sound of pounding rain slowly, slowly eroding and rusting the cars parked outside. To the condensation beading on the outside of Syd's glass of orange juice. To the offending coffee in front of you, a crack in the saucer allowing the liberation of dark liquid from the bottom of the cup, diffusing at a glacial pace through the placemat. 

Time slows to a crawl, and just as quickly resumes its normal pace. You were never any good with moments.

*****

"_You are not a question_

suitable for investigation. Your body is presence

I want to articulate."

*****

"Vaughn?"

You raise your eyes to meet her inquisitive glance. Notice the crumb of toast hanging to the corner of her lip, and do nothing about it. Before, you might have been as bold to remove it yourself, but now you have accepted the world for what it is, and can no better remove the crumb than reverse the constraints that tether you to acceptable choices.

"You seem preoccupied." The unwavering focus she paid her meal only moments before is now aimed directly at you, and you resist the temptation to recoil under the intensity of her perception. 

"I've had a lot on my mind." Evasive maneuvers. 

A clatter from behind disrupts your train of thought, and you swivel to identify the sound. "This coffee tastes horrible! I thought you knew the way I liked it. Now go get me a new cup and make it quick." You watch idly as the waitress, scowling, removes the offensive cup from the disgruntled man seated across the room and scurries to the kitchen area. You return your attention to your own cup, by now a veritable mess spread over your placesetting. A spontaneous reaction, you think, the coffee moving from a state of order contained within the cup to the disarray of a damp mess leaking out of the saucer. Entropy following simple laws of nature, an expected and unremarkable event. But no one ever heard of coffee seeping **into** a cup from a table, it just can't happen, or so every environmental cue has taught you. 

If only you could change your environment, contort free energy at will to suit your personal needs. Life would be more complicated but much, much easier.

"What's going on?" Inquisitive. If you considered it, you would come to the conclusion that it took her an inordinately long time to pick up on your disquietude, for such a trained observer as she. But you do not consider this, because really, what could come out of such an observation. You have already learned this lesson.

It is difficult for you to focus on her form. Slightly off the focal point, you see two mirror twin Sydneys, each superimposed upon the other, blurry at the edges. You blink your eyes, and unite her image once more, the momentary blurring a thing of the past. 

"Alice and I are back together." You watch as Sydney digests this information, compartmentalizes it, files it away. She has an excellent poker face, one you envy, and she is easier to deal with now, with invisible walls and defenses in place.

"That's nice." Forced casualism. This you recognize, because you are an equal master to this response.

"We're engaged." And at last, you catch her off-guard. You observe a flurry of emotions cross her face, and turn back to the window to pretend that emotion never materialized. You remain silent, alternatively focusing on the natural storm outside and the internal storm raging within the reflection you see bounced from the glass. 

She says nothing, you explain nothing, and the distance that once seemed cramped between you both becomes a cavernous expanse. You wish you had the tenacity to explain. That there are things you are allowed to have, and there are things you are not. And you can spend your entire life waiting for something truly amazing that will never be, or accept something that makes you happy and live your life under constraints that no man can break. You wish you had the tenacity to explain, but you are a fool, and you say nothing.

You want Sydney, crave her. But you, too, crave a normal life. And it would be worth it, to wait for her, but you would be waiting forever, and no amount of persuasion or transformation or alteration could affect the static of the situation. 

You wish you could change the world, to create a life where what you wanted and what you were allowed to want were one and the same, but you are confined to this life only, and you have no more control over the forces that control you than the rain deciding where it will fall.

You think after a few minutes of stillness Sydney leaves, dons her poncho, and ventures outside. You can see her once again through the glass; perhaps she is on the other side, and that is why her form retains cohesion as you watch. Or perhaps you are mistaken, and this is no more than a residual image bounced from the glass. You close your eyes, shutting the outside and opening a door where you live an alchemist's delight, creating a world where you control every facet of your life, and the Sydneys on both sides of the glass are one and the same.

***** 

"I relate one variable to another.

It is what I do. Sometimes I substitute 

letters for the unknown quantities – I find them

easier to work with, less restless on the page."

*****

The Alchemist's Lament

elabyrinthine@yahoo.com

*Full Circle stalkers – one, thanks for the continual reminder that yes, I haven't updated that in two months. Two, it **will** be finished, but not until the semester is out early May. I want to do the ending justice, and it is taking a while, but I so appreciate your patience and I hope that when it does get finished it will be worth the wait~


End file.
